Friday, 6 August 2010

the absurded

IF the sky were to snap
prophetically slogan a hearth
made of those distant bugles
replication history stagger
back against drying flesh

via the track as not
known at this address
a nosegay vendor
a drummer darting along the wall
ululation of a silent

orchestra. was suspicioned
incurious disintegration. clasp



I'VE put 1 litre
Of marmalade
In the sentry box nr.
The bandstand
I'm attending
Your instruction
I'll report
Upon the war
When there are no
Ghosts to speak of since
Such things will never have
Occurence I'll continue
Nursing my ruined arm
+ make neat incisions
Into the globe of my left
Eye the blinds - o! -
Creak in the blustery
Wind plashes of green
Fingers. I swear
I'm herding voices

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